


wrapped around your finger

by singitagain



Series: Wavelength [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: A bit of humour, Admiration, All the teasing, Banter, Character Study, Consensual, Fingering, Hotdogging, M/M, Nygmobblepot, Porn with Feelings, Rimjobs, assplay, bottomwald, ed letting his kinky flag fly, he can't resist an experiment, medical kink (reference), pure filth, served hot and fresh, though dark ed has certain fantasies, tons of foreplay, toys (reference), war of two eds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 05:49:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16056815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singitagain/pseuds/singitagain
Summary: Oswald doesn't beg, he never begs for him. But he doesn't have to when his body says everything he won't.(A much expanded version of 'the other white meat'. Could be read as a sort of companion piece to Diversions, or by itself.)





	wrapped around your finger

Behind every powerful mayor is an equally powerful chief-of-staff; just how Ed likes it.

He licks away a rope of spit clinging to his lip and softens his jaw into Oswald, tracing another slow, dripping stripe along the seam of his balls and up his crack. 

This isn't Oswald's way of showing love, of course; Ed knows he would never return the favour with the same spontaneity, if at all. But Ed can live with that, because Oswald _gives_ in other ways. Little ways. A restless shift of his weight, a whitening of his knuckles. The way his breath stutters soft in his throat.

It's a little precious, how quiet Oswald can go. He's still too fresh to this world of touch. Too unused to pleasure and welcoming it shamelessly, not that he has much of a choice spread like a sacrificial offering --

\--and, oh, he spreads so nice bent over his desk, this small, skinny man with a small, skinny ass, no hands needed. Ed can't help touching him anyway, squeezing him, edging open that pretty hole with his fingers. Gotham's best kept secret.

He pries, gently, but Oswald still tight for being slathered with kisses - _surprise, surprise_. Nothing Ed can't fix, nothing he hasn't done before. Oswald takes more time than Kristen had, and that's fine - everything's fine, when he buries into Oswald's ass and feels him pulse against the tip of his tongue, feels him soften and open to the hot slide of the rest of it and tastes the rawness of him. Oswald doesn't beg, he never begs for him. But he doesn't have to when his body says everything he won't. When he goes up on his toes and squirms and mewls like he's been stabbed in the guts, hitting pitches that make Ed ache that hot, sick ache and want him so bad it hurts.

Oswald's less sympathetic about it than he'd like, snapping to awareness the moment he unzips his fly. It's hard not to notice.

"Relax," Ed urges, stroking his back like normal people do when other people are upset. He thinks he's getting better at it, at least until Oswald bristles under his touch.

"I _am_ relaxed!" He hisses. "...I'm _trying_ , okay??"

Ed pulls back. Pauses.

"...I told you, it won't be like last time - trust me. I bought extra."

He holds up some freshly unscrewed lubricant, jiggles the tube, though Oswald doesn't end up glancing over his shoulder to look.

"You'd better hope not, 'cause _that_ was a goddamn nightmare -- and it wasn't even my fault!"

Ed sighs. It wasn't his fault, either, that Oswald Cobblepot couldn't take half as well as he could dish out. Though all things considered, he supposes he shouldn't have been surprised.

And, okay. Maybe he had been too eager, just a little.

Hadn't they both?

"I'm sorry," He tries, supposing it won't be enough and that Oswald would revoke his slightly whiskey-slurred _yes_ (more like, "all right, _fine_ ") to sex in his office. Because Oswald, least of all, is the kind of man who seemed to prefer the formality ( _you mean, 'boring safety'_ , a voice says into Ed's ear) of his own bedroom. It had a door that locked. Not that it should matter with Olga gone for the day.

If it were up to him, to the Ed settling for taking Oswald over his desk, Oswald might have been on his knees ( _like a good little bird_.) Shoved down, half-smothered into the carpet with his spit-polished ass up ( _\--and ripe for the fucking, eh Eddie?_ ) The whole kneeling thing would be tough on that leg for longer periods of time. Meant Oswald would be hurting badly enough from that alone to handle being fucked raw, into the floor - and both Eds know that after something like that, he'd would never let him near him again. Could never trust him.

Ed sucks in a breath through his teeth, gives himself a moment for his head to clear.

"I'll take care of you," He says. 

And he means it. He's sure he does, even while the other Ed lingers in the corner of his eye. While the other Ed pokes a finger into his own mouth to check for cavities before rolling his eyes and assuring him he'd probably say anything just to get Oswald on his cock in a snap. He knows he could offer up a few Hallmark-card platitudes easily enough, the sort of things Oswald's sad, black hole of a heart would eat right up. But he could do a lot of things, if he really wanted to. Could've let him drink himself into a daze before they started, even - and how terrifyingly easy that'd have been. But he's better than that. _Smarter_ than that, more importantly. And that Oswald bent over for him, no nasty tricks involved, is all the proof he needs.

"I promise," Ed adds, his voice low, pitched to soothe. Everything Oswald needs it to be when he takes him light, smoothing his thumbs over the sharp cut of his hips. He doesn't know what sort of look Oswald has on his face, what's running through his mind while he quietly sorts out whatever needs sorting out. But that he isn't hearing a _no_ means something.

"Ah..."

"Don't worry," Ed assures him, "I'm not going to enter you. I won't do anything until you tell me you're ready."

_Enter you._

It sounds so stilted, so strange. One entered names into a database, entered a room. One didn't _enter_ Oswald Cobblepot.

But here he is, about to make history, because one and a half-ish minutes from the last time around doesn't count.

"Oswald?" 

"Yes, yes, I _heard_ you--" Oswald answers, finally, a slight edge in his voice. A beat passes, and when he speaks again there's a muffled sound to it, like he has his face in his hands. "Wow... you must be pretty desperate. I mean, you clearly put _a lot_ of thought into this, and I..." He huffs a laugh. "...I don't know what to say to that."

Ed can think of a few things.

"...And I'm not made of glass, by the way. I _am_ the King of Gotham, and I'm pretty sure I can handle you so long as you are not the frantic, jittery mess you were last time."

_The King of Gotham and drunk._

Ed quirks a wry, patient smile. "I know," he says, just as he knows how different an answer Oswald could have given at another time, another place.

Oswald's right, though, about the glass. ( _Glass, of course, doesn't moan like a bitch._ ) 

Neither does Oswald, at first, as Ed pours a generous squeeze of lube down his crack, catching it on his thumb and rolling it over his skin. Though he can hear the beginnings of _something_ snag in Oswald's throat when he slips in a fingertip to spread some of the damp, careful. A little on the inside wouldn't hurt.

He takes a moment to slick up, himself.

"Good...?"

Ed isn't really expecting an answer. Though he does feel a _smidge_ guilty over not waiting longer for one when he nestles up against Oswald and rolls his hips, sliding his cock up and down, up and down, throbbing between the meat of his ass cheeks. It feels good, holding him steady for it. The lazy glide of skin on skin.

"Wh, what are you doing?" There's something approaching boyish outrage in that tone of his and Ed thinks he can _hear_ Oswald blush.

"I just want you to get used to what it feels like so it won't come as a surprise to you later."

It's not a lie; just half the truth. Oswald gives it all of two seconds of consideration before scoffing softly, incredulous. "Oh. ...How _thoughtful_ of you."

"You're welcome." Ed grins. 

So he _is_ desperate. He's aching something fierce and Oswald is _there_ , warm and real and stirring in his grip, clenching and unclenching as they rub up on each other - a cry for help if Ed's ever seen one. At least they're suffering together.

"Just say when, Oswald," Ed husks, "use your words," and by then he's leaking precome, fat drops that roll down, smudged into Oswald's skin. His cock snags Oswald's hole and he jumps, sucking in his breath.

" _Fuck_ words!"

Ha.

"Okiedoke. I'll give you some time to think about it."

A break, then. 

With more lube comes a change of tactics, or a return to an old favourite, sinking a long finger into Oswald until it disappears. He takes him, squirming and hungry, keening at the press of a second, a third. And it's _fun_ , watching Oswald give up and lean into every thrust, little by little, until he's backing into his knuckles. It's _fun_ , the way burning ants as a kid was fun, to feel the tug of anxious, flexing muscles as he saws his fingers back and forth; as Oswald tries angling himself for a deeper nudge of his prostate, that sweet knot of nerves, and Ed holds out on him for no other reason other that he can.

" _Well well_..." he chuckles, " _somebody's_ eager."

"Ed..." Oswald rasps back, urgent and angry. But only until a fourth finger works inside him and pushes a shuddering gasp from his lungs. He goes very still at that, a helpless tremor running through his knee. It's a good look for him, his rim shiny-wet, tight around him. Though with some coaxing on his part and some whining on Oswald's, Ed knows he could make room for more.

He believes in Oswald Cobblepot, after all, even when he didn't believe in himself. And he's not disappointed when he draws out his twitching hole, stopping to squeeze out more lube before he crooks his index fingers back into his ass, then his middle fingers, and gently eases them apart.

Oswald makes a strangled noise, opens beautifully for him. Not much more than an inch, if that, before he meets resistance - but enough to expose a peek of sloppy, clenching pinkness. A hollow waiting to be filled.

Ed's throat moves. The cramping hurt in his guts sharpens; he pants around it, breath coming a little faster, a little ragged around the edges. He's never seen Oswald like this before - and it takes him a moment to realize no one ever has.

It sends a chill through him.

"You are... absolutely remarkable," he catches himself saying, and it doesn't matter that Oswald will never agree. He's fucking _gorgeous_ , raw and wet and _his_. Ed wants to stretch him with a plug he doesn't have, something cute and small and glass all around so he could look through the middle whenever he got tired of kissing Oswald's flushed, sweating face and panting mouth as a reward and admire him under better lighting, glasses back on. He wants a speculum, like the ones from the forensics lab of the GCPD, to free up a hand with. Grease it up and slip it neat, delicate metal spreading a porthole to Oswald's tender, pulsing insides - _easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy_ \- and, voila. ( _Gotham's fearsome king, just so fuckable and easy to eat._ )

The only problem - if that - is figuring out how to pitch it, how to sell any of these ideas to someone so wary of everything, so aggressively confident in everything but his own body. But if a man like Oswald could learn to say _yes_ to stripping down _and_ being ruthlessly tongue-fucked, then there was hope for anything.

He gives Oswald some time to try making peace with his own powerlessness, for the restless muscles trying to close around his fingers to tire and relax long enough for Ed to curl his tongue inside him, slotting it into the heat of his guts as best he can. Oswald whines and clamps down on him as Ed slips out his fingers to grab him instead, to hold him down and not let go - and only two thrusts in he can feel tension ripple up Oswald's legs and through his ass. Feels him lurch in his grip as he chokes a cry and knows he's come, at last.

Lucky Oswald.

The nice thing to do, of course, would be to leave him, to let him catch his breath in gulps while the shivers roll through him, every inch of him tingly-raw. But it's Oswald's turn to play nice - and Ed doesn't even mind doing the work for him, dragging him by the hips into him, into every stab of his tongue. Oswald cries out, wriggling; he sighs and groans and wheezes like it hurts - _ah ah ah_ \- until his voice catches like a fishbone in his throat and he slaps a hand down on his desk.

The sound is sharp, startling.

"Stop..." Oswald pants out.

Something flips in Ed's belly.

He pauses, leaning sideways in his chair a moment for a better look at him. Oswald's sides are surging, his head in his arms.

Ed's smile falls. "...Too much?" he asks.

Oswald doesn't answer, but he doesn't straighten up either, and Ed isn't sure what to do, where to look. 

There's come dribbling off the edge of the desk, between Oswald's legs.

A few long beats pass.

"...You know what I want," Oswald huffs, and it's an effort, a _struggle_ between breaths, "...and whatever you're planning on doing, just... _do_ it already and get it over with, or I swear to god, I will turn around and strangle you."

Ed blinks, taking it in.

It's as close to _fuck me, Edward Nygma_ as he thinks he'll ever get. And he can't say no to that any more than he can the fluttery part of Oswald begging for cock to split him wide, to take another first from him, _first kiss_ and _first love_ already ticked off the list. Because if Ed's learned anything in the past few months, it's that when Oswald is giving, you'd best be taking.

So he puts his smooth, wet cock to Oswald's hole, no more games. It's obliging enough, puckering out a little.

"Wait..." Oswald says. Softer, but no less urgent.

Ed waits, surprised and not surprised when Oswald turns around. Not to put those cold lizard-hands around his throat but to sit himself up on his desk after he's wiped it off with a few tissues. He's a wreck, disheveled and clothes unbuttoned, his pupils swollen. His face is wet. Ed doesn't think Oswald will meet his eyes but he does, after Ed's swept aside a few of his papers and paperweights and helped ease him down. It might not be Oswald's cushy fairy-tale bed, the four-postered thing with crisp-pressed sheets and silk pillow covers, but it'd do.

Oswald asks and Ed passes him a flask from his drawer, one of several around the mansion. A wincing gulp and he murmurs his thanks, knuckling his chin dry. Ed considers a sip of his own, then puts the flask away. He wants to remember this with perfect, unflinching clarity. Wants the feel of Oswald's skin burned into his fingertips and the taste of him in his mouth, unspoiled.

"Good?" Ed tries again, brightly.

He expects Oswald to send him for a pillow, a blanket, knowing a more sober Oswald would've had _words_ , so many words, about using his desk for this. That'd come tomorrow. But this Oswald just sniffs and looks up to the sparkling chandelier, letting his eyes fall shut a moment.

He's not resting, of course. Not even close when Ed slides his ass over the edge of his desk and helps him hitch his legs up over his shoulders, like a good friend. Ed stops to watch the heave of his chest a while. Kisses him soft along his ribs, those lovely, slender bones and the trembling skin in between.

Beautiful.

_Oswald Cobblepot, the other white meat._

Ed leans deeper, moving to kiss him on the mouth. Hesitating, though, when Oswald's jaw winds tight and he makes a noise like he's clearing his throat, lifting a hand between them oh-so politely. He knows where Ed's tongue has been.

Neither of them apologize. But in the silence that hangs between them, Oswald manages to hold his gaze for a long time. He swallows, a dry click they both can hear.

"I trust you, Ed."

It seems like a strange thing to say this far in. Though maybe it's the only dignified thing that can really be said with nothing left to hide or to hide behind. One part _threat_ , two parts a _plea_ , because it's Oswald, and of course it is. 

Ed adds a dollop of lube, smoothing it over himself in long, easy strokes. Oswald looks away.

"I know," he repeats, smiling faintly. And it's nice, when Oswald lets out the breath he's held from the start and uncurls his hands, when he lets himself sink into his desk, assuring Ed that this is something they're doing together, for each other. It's what friends do. And them, they're always at their best as a team. "I won't let you down."

**Author's Note:**

> (Why don't you ever write out the rest of the sex, asked no one ever? Well, I kind of like blueballing readers, I guess, with the joy of leaving at least something to the *imaginaaaaation*. If you pictured me making a rainbow with my hands, you get a cookie. Unfortunately I have none with me at the moment.
> 
> No, it's mostly that I enjoy the build up more than the fuckery, and the actual fuckery is something I enjoy far more in roleplay, despite how rarely as I get to write it that way. But hey, maybe some day!)


End file.
